this, and I’m thinkin’ that Reverend Wade is involved in some dark business that sooner or later has to come to light. And what’ll happen to him then?” He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his forehead. “What’ll happen to Constance then?”
Matthew continued eating his soup where he’d left off, his gaze vacant. He had made up his mind what needed to be done as soon as John had mentioned the second man.
“You’re takin’ this calm, I see. Good for you, but it’s a tragedy for Constance. And for the reverend. What’s he gotten himself into?”
Matthew took one more taste and put down his spoon. “I’ll take care of the situation from here.”
“Take care of it? How?”
“Just go back to work. When you see Constance, tell her there’s to be no mention of this to her father. Not yet. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Listen to me,” Matthew said with enough force in his voice to crush all resistance. “It’s vital that Reverend Wade does not know Constance followed him. There’s no use in pushing this in his face before…” He trailed off.
“Before what, Matthew?”
“Before I have all the pieces. But I intend to get them, you can be sure of that. Now promise me there’ll be no word to the reverend. I mean it.”
John hesitated, his expression tormented, but then he lowered his eyes and grasped the table’s edge as if fearing to be flung off the world. “I trust you,” he said quietly. “Thought you were crazed in the head many a time, but I do trust you. All right. No word to the reverend.”
“Go back to work. One more thing: tell Constance to stay at home tonight, no matter if he leaves again or not.”
John Five nodded. He stood up, and Matthew could see how much his friend loved Constance Wade in the abject pain of his eyes and the slump of his broad shoulders. John wished to do something-anything-to help his love, but in this case the strength that drove a hammer was meaningless. “Thank you,” he said, and he left the Trot at a stumble.
Matthew watched him go and then finished his soup. He called for another mug of cider and drank that down. Two of the regulars were playing a game of chess over in the far corner. He decided to watch them, and if needed to give pointers to either party.
It was time, he thought, to meet the mysterious Grace Hester.
When he returned to Grigsby’s house with his bundle of dead man’s clothes, he learned from Marmaduke that the locksmith could not do the job until the next morning, but he was content to wait another day. Grigsby commented on how good he looked with a fresh shave and haircut, which he took as an invitation to come in and speak to Berry, but he simply informed the old fox that the arrangement of which they’d spoken was-after much deliberation-suitable to him for the time being.
“Glad to hear so, my boy!” Grigsby said, with a face-splitting grin. “You won’t regret it!”
“I don’t plan on regretting it. Now do you think I might be able to get a real bed in there? Something small, of course, but more comfortable than deerskin. I’d also like a mirror and a chair. A lapdesk, if there’s not enough room for a larger one. Also a shaving stand. And do you think I might get a rug for the floor, just to keep the dirt settled?”
“All those can be arranged. I’ll make a mansion out of it for you.”
“I also have some…uh…new clothes. Anything that would help me in keeping them stored would be appreciated.”
“I believe I can put up some pegs for you. What else?”
“I’d like to have that junk cleared out,” Matthew said. “May I ask why there’s an archery target and rapier among the current furnishings?”
“Oh, all that stuff. You’d be amazed what people barter with to settle their debts. The sword belonged to a militia officer who wanted a book of poems printed for his lady. Married her and they moved to Huntington, as I recall. The target is more recent. It was payment from the Green Arrows archery club for an announcement in the first Earwig. When it was the Bedbug, I mean.”
“You might want to insist on coin of the realm for your labor,” Matthew advised. “In any case, if all those buckets and boxes were out I’d have more room in my mansion.”
With that list of demands delivered, Matthew returned to the dairyhouse, lit his lantern, and retrieved Ausley’s notebook from the straw inside the archery target. He sat on the cot and began to go over the notations page-by-page in the steady yellow light.
It didn’t take him long to realize this particular notebook had been started near the first of May, according to jottings on the weather and the date of a particularly large loss of two crowns, four shillings at the Old Admiral on May fifth. Ausley won three shillings on the seventh of May, then lost another crown on the eighth. So much for his breaking even at the tables. In fact, judging by the angry scrawls and wine-spottings throughout the portion of the notebook that dealt with Ausley’s gambling habits, the man was in continual dire straits. Yet where was his money coming from? Surely he didn’t draw enough from the town to afford such losses.
Matthew saw that Ausley kept the items in his notebook separate from each other. That is, scribblings on his gambling woes were in one section, health woes in another, meals and regurgitations in yet another, and so on. And then there was the cryptic list of names and numbers, which was on a page following the section that concerned amounts due from the various charities and churches. Some of the social clubs, such as the New Yorkers and the Cavaliers, also were jotted down as being sources of charitable funds.
Was Ausley pocketing some of that money? Matthew wondered. And that’s how he was paying his debts? For the gambling debt section clearly showed payments to several brothers of the bones in amounts that dwarfed the charities. If anything, it appeared from the notebook that Ausley was quick to erase his losses, as he wouldn’t have been allowed back at the tables otherwise.
But the list of names and numbers. What to make of them?
The names of orphans, yes. Matthew accepted that much. What did the dates mean? The notation Rejct and the word Chapel? He studied the numbers, trying to find a pattern or some sense of them. A code of some kind? Or a form of shorthand? Whatever they were, their meaning had died within Ausley’s brain.
He returned the notebook to its sanctuary within the archery target, covered the target over with canvas, and at six o’clock attended supper at Grigsby’s house, where he ate chicken and rice with the printmaster and Berry. Afterward he played Grigsby a few games of checkers while Berry worked on applying outlandish colors to one of her landscapes, and as the hour grew later Matthew excused himself and retired to his humble abode.
There he kept track of the time and wondered what a gentleman wore to a whorehouse, as he himself had never crossed such a threshold. At nine o’clock he dressed in a white shirt and cravat, the dark blue suit and waistcoat with silver buttons, and put a few shillings in his pocket though again he had no idea what the going rate was. He debated carrying a lantern or not and decided against it. Then, as ready as he thought he’d ever be, he left the dairyhouse, locked the door behind him, and started off toward Petticoat Lane with an eye peeled for a constable’s lamp.
Tonight he was the skulker, for he moved furtively along the streets. He didn’t fail to think that the Masker might be coming up behind him at any moment, but he doubted the Masker would harm him. The notebook had been given to him for the purpose of deduction; the Masker wanted him to see that mysterious page and figure out what it meant, thus there was no point in murder. He realized that in some strange way he was now working at the Masker’s behest.
Matthew heard loud and drunken singing and put his head down as three sots staggered along Wall Street, passing without seeing him. He saw the glimmer of a moving lantern at the end of the block and turned left onto Smith Street to avoid the approaching constable. There he kept his wits about him and froze in a doorway as another constable-this one carrying a hatchet to go along with his lamp-strode past on his way to apprehend the melodic trio. Matthew kept going, turning right onto Princes Street and then crossing the Broad Way. At the corner of Petticoat Lane he almost collided with another man who was walking north at a fast clip, but the incident was over and his fellow decree-breaker moving away so rapidly that Matthew’s heart barely had time to jump.
A few more paces and Matthew stood before the two-story pink brick house. Candles shone through the gauzy curtains. As he watched he could see figures moving past the windows. The pink-painted iron gate between
